Your Heart Was My Home Until You Handed Me an Eviction Notice

I removed the layers of blankets from my aching bones to excavate the secrets that were held together by saliva in papier-mâché envelopes, only to chew on disappointments and lie on shards of fragile stained glass that tampered with my flaws, instead of putting me back together with multicolored duct tape so gray was only found inside of my body.

I wrung the tears from your sweatshirt and decided it was time to give it back to you, in exchange for my serpent heart

[barely beating,

barely breathing]; instead of curling inside your stomach and making you nearly as ill as I had become, just by drinking venomous nectar and digesting fireflies so a small portion of me would feel alive, I climbed over your picket fence and let you recline my eyes in another awkward position to the point where I only chain-smoked the main exhibits of your aesthetic proportions and declined every deficiency of the person you truly are,

I thought the way you pieced everything together was brilliant, but that you went overboard with the screaming cliches' and the descriptions. You could have just worded it, in a less complex format and I would gotten more out of it. I was tripped up too much on the stunning imagery, but the whole thing is, when you have an overabundance of description in any piece it takes away from the overall tone of the piece itself and loses meaning.